Be Still and Know

“ 'You still believing in the beautiful light are you? How do you do that? You're a magician to me.'

'I still see a spark in you.' ”

“One man looks at a dying bird and thinks there's nothing but unanswered pain, that death's got the final word; it's laughing at 'em. Another man sees that same bird—feels the glory, feels something smilin' through it.”

“ 'In this world, a man himself is nothing. And there ain't no world but this one.'

'You're wrong there Top. I've seen another world. Sometimes I think it was just my imagination.' ”

~ The Thin Red Line

"No time for infinity? Gotta piece together a theory?"
-Huckabees

Lately I've been thinking about the importance of listening. It's a fairly poetic practice, I suppose. I guess I've always been more of a listener/observer, and good listening is one of the most important things poetry has helped me develop (or at least inspires me to want to develop). Poetry leaves me in awe at the power of the human heart to redeem. And when I read the descriptions of a “seer” in the scriptures, I think: That's a poet! (at least when loosely interpreted). Not that we all should be poet's by trade, but perhaps poets at heart: awake and aware, “plugged in,” redeeming even the infinitesimal. When I take the time to relax, ponder and listen (often in nature)—including all the senses—I'm always filled with more than enough to love and treasure. Those who are open to life and beauty seem to live in a world of heightened peace and enjoyment. I think it is a godly trait to delight in life, to be full of love for all, to perceive beauty in everything. I feel deeply that it is important for us to keep tender, full of awe and wonder, sifting the richness; we must nurture our delicate and fine sensitivities, give way to them, and never become “past feeling.” Here's a poem by Mary Oliver I found while thinking about this:


THE SUN

Have you ever seen
anything
in your life
more wonderful

than the way the sun,
every evening,
relaxed and easy,
floats toward the horizon

and into the clouds or the hills,
or the rumpled sea,
and is gone—
and how it slides again

out of the blackness,
every morning,
on the other side of the world,
like a red flower

streaming upward on its heavenly oils,
say, on a morning in early summer,
at its perfect imperial distance—
and have you ever felt for anything

such wild love—
do you think there is anywhere, in any language,
a word billowing enough
for the pleasure

that fills you,
as the sun
reaches out,
as it warms you

as you stand there,
empty-handed—
or have you too
turned from this world—

or have you too
gone crazy
for power,
for things?


*Stay tender with awe and wonder*